(no subject)
Please. Please. Pleeeeeease. Please? PLEASE!
That's all I hear.
It's the romance. It wants to be left out. Begging, pitifully, on its little bony knees. It reasons with me, points out that I am always more comfortable in love. It tells me I would rather believe the one I love is the stars in my sky, the apple of my eye, the syrup on my pancakes than go out and party 'til I drop.
I've played the party of carefree party girl for so long, and so convincingly, that I've almost adapted that persona for myself. Wild, crazy, fun, adventurous, yes these are all valid characteristics. But I'm no urban party monster. No. I write poetry on my skin, hoping that the ink will sink in and the words and rhymes and phrases will course through my veins. I don't see shapes in clouds, but rather I see portraits. If it were possible, I would make friends with the characters in the books I have perused so many times that the pages are yellowing and weakened.
I am a romantic.
Color me Byron, Shelley, Poe and Dickinson. Emily, not Charlotte, Bronte. Van Gogh.
I want to believe, whole-heartedly, in fantastical pseudo-myths of an all encompassing love.
No.
I have to. Because I can feel it calling me.
That's all I hear.
It's the romance. It wants to be left out. Begging, pitifully, on its little bony knees. It reasons with me, points out that I am always more comfortable in love. It tells me I would rather believe the one I love is the stars in my sky, the apple of my eye, the syrup on my pancakes than go out and party 'til I drop.
I've played the party of carefree party girl for so long, and so convincingly, that I've almost adapted that persona for myself. Wild, crazy, fun, adventurous, yes these are all valid characteristics. But I'm no urban party monster. No. I write poetry on my skin, hoping that the ink will sink in and the words and rhymes and phrases will course through my veins. I don't see shapes in clouds, but rather I see portraits. If it were possible, I would make friends with the characters in the books I have perused so many times that the pages are yellowing and weakened.
I am a romantic.
Color me Byron, Shelley, Poe and Dickinson. Emily, not Charlotte, Bronte. Van Gogh.
I want to believe, whole-heartedly, in fantastical pseudo-myths of an all encompassing love.
No.
I have to. Because I can feel it calling me.